


Livestreaming

by theoldgods



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Cameras, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Glasses, M/M, Masturbation, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For coworkers, it's not actually all that often that Harry and Merlin get to see one another in the flesh. Fortunately, Kingsman has glasses that can record everything and a man whose job it is, in part, to review the footage they collect--no matter how intentionally or unintentionally salacious it might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Livestreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orysbaratheon (kinginthenarrowsea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinginthenarrowsea/gifts).



> I've so far only seen the movie once, so there may be some oddities of character or how the plot works together, but hopefully it's enjoyable nonetheless--I had to get something for these two out of my system ASAP! I'm American and sometimes it peeks through for Brit canons--feel free to correct me on glaringly not-British terminology.

They were in the same organization—the same _top secret_ organization, even, the elite of this stodgy island—but that did not mean that Merlin actually often saw Harry in flesh and blood. Living Harry’s life through his stream—running, fighting, occasionally blood or guts sprayed across the glasses in a way that was disturbingly arousing— _was_ quite a good substitute, for what it was worth. There was intimacy in how they could whisper to one another from hundreds or thousands of miles away; Merlin relished the snarky comments he dropped into Harry’s ear and the rare occasion that one might be sent back. Touching was better, always better, but in typical Kingsman fashion, if it dulled the pain and didn’t out you (as a boor) to the public, it was allowed.

The first time was not all that long after they’d been issued the glasses in the first place, a few years after Merlin had failed to shoot his dog and had found that, instead of being chucked out on the street, his honor earned him a place as the magician. He quickly learned that agents all too often forgot to turn the damn things off, put them aside, whatever it was that etiquette demanded, and reviewing footage even days or weeks afterward showed more cunts, arses, and dicks than some of the most depraved porn. He’d been reviewing Galahad’s stream from a mission to Cairo and had found, to his surprise, that Galahad actually knew where to put the damn things—maybe he couldn’t figure out how to turn them entirely off, but his glasses, angled on the bedside table, meant that all Merlin saw was the ceiling, a white patch that seemed to grow ever brighter as Galahad’s gasps and grunts increased in frequency and Merlin’s prick, not for the first time in a situation like this, twitched behind his zip.

No manner of rotating the picture could bring Galahad or his partner into view, but what Merlin found most interesting was the voice that spoke halfway through: “Yes. _Yes_ , hands against the—hnnn!” That was not Galahad’s voice, and the entire sequence was otherwise silent but for the gasping. It was also exceedingly male and, unless his ear betrayed him, exceedingly Scottish, somewhere close to Glasgow—broader than his own accent but enough of a resemblance to force a small groan out of his own throat.

Merlin would have figured that the second time, a few weeks later, was a prank, were it not for the fact that tonight’s star was again Harry Hart, the soberest Kingsman of the lot. It was, however, hard to draw another conclusion from the facts: they were livestreaming, they were in a ridiculously posh club in Toronto keeping an eye on a pair of arms dealers, and the view had been fixated on one arms dealer’s arse for more than thirty continuous seconds.

“Not exactly subtle, Hart,” Merlin remarked, curling his fingers around the mic. “Need I remind you that this is official archival material?”

“He’s bent,” was Hart’s soft, drawling reply.

“I don’t think you’re authorized for a honey trap, Agent Galahad.” Merlin shifted in his chair before continuing. “And I don’t advise this particular one as an extracurricular activity.”

The only reply was a huff, exactly the sort of indiscriminate sound that could indicate amusement, offense, or agreement depending on what the listener wanted to hear. Hart looked away, focusing instead on the other man’s drink, which he’d drugged—light deliriant and tongue loosener, a test run for a potential future mission—ten minutes prior. He also dropped a coin, looked down to retrieve it, and, so briefly that Merlin almost assumed he’d dreamed it, grabbed himself through the fabric of his trousers.

The livestreaming stopped about twenty minutes after that, with Merlin pressing the heel of his hand against his own crotch for its duration. When the night’s full material was downloadable the next morning, Merlin found it had arrived in two packets, one of which was named simply “M.” He clicked on that first and choked on his coffee at the sight of Harry Hart sprawled naked—and alone—across his hotel bed, looking sideways into the camera.

 _“I don’t know how well this will work,”_ recorded Hart remarked, as Merlin double-checked the lock on his door. _“They’re on the bedside table and I’m not a director.”_ He curled a hand around the head of his prick nonetheless as his other stroked his chest and his back arched slowly off the bed. Merlin sat in stunned silence as, for ten minutes, his colleague masturbated himself to a finish, white limbs sprawling against the red duvet as he came.

The cinematography never improved over the years and, in any case, no recorded image could match Merlin’s memories of Harry’s actual flesh beneath him, around him. There were only so many times a month, a year, you could cut to a private channel without arousing suspicion, even if one participant was in charge of the archival footage in the first place. Most of the time it was lingering shots of someone’s arse, “accidentally” forgetting to turn off the camera function while working a honey trap, and Merlin murmuring crude double entendres while Harry grunted in appreciation at the other end. Merlin had a fondness for their streaming play nonetheless, in part because that was, after all, how Harry Hart had seduced him in the first place.

It was thus perhaps more surprising than it should have been to walk into Harry’s recovery room one night, after berating Eggsy for keeping J.B. off leash at dinner, to find him sprawled naked on his narrow hospital bed.

“Christ, what if I were one of the trainees?” Merlin asked as he closed the door behind him.

“Lock it,” Harry grunted, prick in hand. As Merlin obeyed, he continued, “And stay over there.”

“If this is going to be a private porno—”

“As dearly as I want you in some orifice of mine—I am _not_ picky right now—I am apparently too fragile for most things.” Harry’s thumb stroked across his slit and he gasped. “Your gaze will work just as well.”

“I can lend a hand, at least—”

“Stay!” Harry growled, beginning to thrust into his hand. Merlin leaned back against the door, shrugged, and reached for his own zip. “And keep….your hands...off.”

“This is insanity,” Merlin remarked, flexing his fingers. “For once we’re in the same bloody place and I’m watching you writhing like an underpaid whore.”

“More,” Harry groaned, tilting his gaze to the ceiling as the pace of his thrusts increased.

“I should come over there and bind your hands to the bed.” Another groan. “How is it that you get to touch yourself while recovering from an explosion and I have to play nanny?”

“You’re...a very good...nanny....”

“You like that thought, don’t you, Galahad? Me as sweet nanny nursemaid to your street boy?” Harry’s leg jerked, and Merlin smiled. “Never mind. You were always the runaround and I was the homebody. I keep good house, don’t I, Harry? Raise your bloody boys up right, keep the hearth going strong, meet you naked at the front door when you come home?”

Harry’s voice was a low whine in his throat. It had been months, really, since Merlin had last seen him so desperate so quickly, and his prick throbbed in his trousers in sympathy as he continued.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re filthy, keening like a dog over there, imagining it. Me taking your jacket off after you walk in the door, me pinning you against the wall and taking your arse in my hands—it’s worth both of them, at least you’ve got that going for you—maybe thrusting up real close against you so you can feel me through your fucking trousers. Yes, I think I _will_ touch myself after all—”

“Merlin—”

“Just to increase the realism a bit.” Merlin shot him his best leer, not that Harry, arching off the bed with his eyes closed, could see it. “Just to remember what I feel like, warm because of you, so thick because of your arse in my hands and you flat against the wall, all _mine_ , hands pinned up too so that you can’t get in the way of your own damn pleasure.” He gave himself a long, slow stroke, melting slightly against the door. “Yes, that’s about right—unable to stop myself twitching against you, I’d be—groan in your ear, transfer a hand to your cock and twist, just so—"

Harry grunted into his pillow as he came. Merlin smiled and removed his hands from his trousers, doing up his zip once more as Harry’s breathing slowed.

“Why didn’t you—?”

“Doesn’t much matter.” Merlin approached the bedside and brushed a hand against Harry’s sweaty forehead, pushing his hair back. “Too irritated at your bloody boy to keep up for long.”

Harry’s mouth twitched; he stretched slowly, eyes closed, luxuriating under Merlin’s touch. “The dog?”

“He’s a fool for him, would let him eat off his plate if I allowed it.” Merlin felt his smile droop. “He won’t be able to shoot, Harry, if he gets that far.”

Harry cracked an eye open. “Maybe he’s yours, then.” He took Merlin’s hand in his, briefly, before releasing it. “I want him where he belongs, at our side. A full brother. Lancelot. But...” He smiled, whisper-soft, before closing his eyes once more and leaning back into the pillow.

“There are worse things in the end than magicians.”


End file.
